


the home we'll never have

by Kalael



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Break Up, M/M, oh my god i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 23:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3873556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalael/pseuds/Kalael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t think,”  Eric stirs his drink, not looking up, “that this is going to work.”</p><p>(Throughout it all he reminds himself, over and over, that this is for the best.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the home we'll never have

**Author's Note:**

> You should probably listen to 'Last Love Song' by ZZ Ward for this.

“I don’t think,” Eric stirs his drink, not looking up, “that this is going to work.”

“No?” Jack asks. He sounds resigned, and Eric grimaces around the rim of his glass as he drinks.

“I’m just. Jack, I can’t.” At any other time, he would have been chattering away like his auntie after half a bottle of bourbon. Words won’t come to him now, and Eric finds himself unable to face Jack’s disappointment.

“Don’t--Eric, don’t apologize. I understand.” Jack runs a hand through his hair, a jerky movement Eric knows is a nervous habit, and Jack looks away as his face goes through a range of minute expressions. Eric sees the way his mouth tilts and straightens, how his eyebrows rise and furrow, his adam’s apple bobbing as words try to form.

“I still--” Eric reaches out to grab Jack’s hand and it stings, everything about this is awful and he would rather vomit than let his traitorous mouth continue with this.

“Please don’t.” Jack turns to face him again, pulling his hand away and his eyes are so _pleading_. “I think we should just. Call it a night. I’ll get you a cab, okay, and--well.”

It doesn’t have to be said. Eric grabs his coat and they stand, both stone-faced as they make for the exit. The bar is crowded but no one’s eyes are on them. The Bruins are playing the Sharks and no one can recognize Jack with a beanie pulled low over his face and a scarf wrapped around his neck. Eric hates that it has to be this way. He hates that he can’t reach out and wrap an arm through Jack’s, hates that he can’t smooth the worry lines from Jack’s forehead.

 _This is for the best_ , he tells himself as Jack hails a cab. _This is for the best, and we will be better off for it._

It doesn’t matter whether it’s the truth or a convincing lie. It hurts all the same, and Eric tips the cab driver extra for not asking when he cries the whole drive back to Samwell.

“Bits, you okay?” When Eric gets back to the Haus, Ransom is sprawled out on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. Holster pokes his head out from the kitchen, where Eric can smell more popcorn.

“No. No, I am not, thank you kindly for asking.” He sounds like he’s been gargling a cactus. His nose is raw from wiping at it. He knows he’s a mess.

Holster’s face crumples as he realizes. Eric’s gaze slides away from him because if he thinks about it now, if he dwells on this he’s never going to stop crying and he doesn’t think he has nearly enough water in his body to handle that. He’ll cry himself into nothing but bones. He covers his face as though that will stop them from coming and it works when he presses his palms against his eyes, so roughly that his head aches. He has to hold himself together.

 _This is for the best_ , he reminds himself, because he has to stick to it. He pulls his hands away and tries to remember how to breathe.

“Do you need anything?” Ransom is halfway off the couch now, the popcorn bowl balanced precariously on the arm of it. “We’re watching Holsey’s shitty movie list, you’re totally welcome to join. Or we can like, make pies. Help you make pies. Do you need to make pies?”

“My movies aren’t shitty,” Holster interjects, “but we can definitely make pies.”

“Need beer?” Nursey chimes in from the stairway. Dex and Chowder are close behind, Chowder looking sleep-rumpled and very concerned.

“I think I just need to be alone. But thank you. All of you. I’m going to be in my room now.” He is followed by silence as he trudges up the stairs. Chowder makes a movement to go with but Dex grabs his arm and shakes his head. Eric feels something like a terminal patient or a man given the death sentence with the way the others watch him. He is not fragile, he is not going to break at the slightest reminder of what he just gave up.

Eric shuts the door behind himself and leans back against it. His room hasn’t changed much since he moved in at the end of freshman year. It will be completely gutted in a few months time, once he’s graduated and on his way back to Georgia. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He’d never really thought it through, just assumed that he’d snag a teaching job as a home ec teacher and coach peewee hockey or junior’s figure skating. It didn’t matter where so long as he was with--well, with Jack.

He sits down at his desk with the total intent of job hunting, like he has been for the past few months, only now he won’t be looking in Providence.

His fingers are motionless on the keyboard. The tabs for applications in Rhode Island are still there.

It comes in rocking waves that bring him slowly towards the desk until his forehead is pressed to the cool wood, the only stabilizing force as sobs tear through him. They are dry-heaving retches that have him clutching his middle. His ribs ache, everything aches, and then the tears come and he is blinded by them.

Throughout it all he reminds himself, over and over, that this is for the best.

 

In Providence, Rhode Island, there is an apartment with every single light turned on. The curtains are thrown wide open and the windows are a beacon on the dark street, inviting anyone to look. No one does. It’s late enough that no one is out.

Jack lays on the floor of the living room and stares at the ceiling fan because the circular motion is soothing, distracting. He doesn’t remember making it home. He’s not sure how he parked, or how he got into the building. He’s certain that he turned on all the lights but he doesn’t know why. He’d entered every room like a farewell. He didn’t go to the kitchen, even though he’s thirsty. Jack just lays on the floor, watching the fan spin and spin and spin.

He has thirty texts and two voicemails and he hasn’t looked at the time because if he looks he’ll know exactly how long he’s laid there, watching the ceiling fan and just trying to regulate his breathing. It’s all he can do to keep himself from getting back into his car and driving to Samwell, even though he knows it won’t make a difference. Eric had been right, because things aren’t as easy as they liked to pretend. 

It is not for the best. It is not, Jack tells himself, because something that hurts this much cannot possibly be the best decision. His stomach twists itself so tightly that if he’d actually managed to eat something in the past few hours he’d likely have thrown it up.

He remembers Eric’s face, the way they hadn’t been able to meet eyes, and Jack knows that he can’t make Eric stay. They can’t do this, skulking around under the media’s radar and seeing each other so rarely between games and practices.

Eric had picked the drapes that frame the sliding door in the kitchen. They are a soft gray and Jack doesn’t even realize what he’s doing when he tears them down, ripping the curtain rod from the wall and leaving holes where the screws were. It hits him on the way down, bouncing off his chest, and Jack crumples like his heart has been shot through. The shock of it startles him into tears. He bites his tongue and curls up on the floor, his knees tucked under him and his forehead pressed to the tile.

He has thought a lot about his future. The plan has always been to play for the NHL. He had never considered what would happen once he met that goal. Play, date Eric, visit Samwell, play, play, play. The actual mechanics of that never registered.

The apartment is too big for one man. Jack had never intended on staying there alone for long. He presses his face to floor, uses the cold to keep himself present, and reminds himself that maybe--despite the pain, despite the gray curtains pooled on the floor and the extra bottles of shampoo in the shower and the ring box in his desk--

it’s for the best.

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I wasn't going to let the first fic I post for this fandom be angst but then I made a mistake and I regret everything.


End file.
